Good Thing I Didn't Buy The Expensive Dress

From the front page of today's paper:

"MOHAMMAD ORDER

CELEBRATIONS CANCELLED

His Highness Shaikh Mohammad Bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Vice President and Prime Minister of the UAE and Ruler of Dubai, has ordered the cancellation of all New Year celebrations in Dubai today as an act of solidarity with the Palestinian people.

In support of the Palestinians in Gaza, who are enduring all kinds of killing, destruction and displacement by the Israeli military machinery, Shaikh Mohammad instructed all concerned authorities in Dubai to put this order in place and take necessary procedures to circulate the decision to all concerned parties."

Wow.

Ode to the Boob Tube

Dear Television and Tivo,

O, how I miss you.  Let me count the ways.

(1)  I used to daydream about seeing you at the end of the day.  After I had wrangled all the rugrats into their respective pens, I would collapse onto our tattered, spattered, crusty couch and feel as if I was falling into your open arms.  It was always at that moment that I could look back and congratulate myself on surviving another 24 hours.  But now?  That relief never comes.  No, I don't even bother flipping through the 212 channels of inferior programming (much of which is not in English, and what is in English, dates from the Reagan era), and my bedside book seems wholly uninterested in winning my affections.  Now, the days have no end and no beginning, and I never have a clue as to what day of the week it is.  Without you, I am space junk floating aimlessly in the Milky Way.

(2)  I miss my friends, whom I could only see through your eyes.  Whoopi, Joy, even Sherri because her wigs fascinated me (but no NOT Elisabeth or Barbara); Bill Maher; Kathy Griffin; the bimbos from The Hills; Vince, Eric, Drama, Turtle, and Ari; Tyra; Jim and Pam; Paul F. Thompkins; even Supernanny, where are you when I need you?  Please tell them all that I send my love and would much rather spend my time with them than with Pam Anderson or Ellen DeGeneres circa 1994.  (Reassure them that I am not completely devoid of company, however: Keith Olberman and Rachel Maddow run on a loop here, not sure why but I dare not call attention to it in case it's a programming error.)

(3)  I miss Tivo.  Lord, how I miss Tivo.  I miss knowing that there would always be some mindless entertainment just incubating there in that treasured black box, waiting for me to come and retrieve it from the digital conveyor belt before it was pushed over the edge into Delete To Make Room For Other Programs.  I miss the be-dup-ba-dup-ba-dup! of the fast-forward button, which was so ingrained in my subconscious that I would actually anticipate hearing it whenever a show I was watching faded to black for commercial break.  I miss scanning past the acceptance speeches of boring award shows and the "out on the town" segments of beauty pageants, cackling to myself as I pictured all the Tivo-deprived suckers out there who had to sit through that nonsense while precious moments of their lives ticked wastefully by.  I miss the beloved green circles bestowed upon the listings of my and the kids' favorite shows, promising me that they would "Save Until I Delete," and never, ever leave me.  In fact, I think I miss Tivo more than I miss my friends, because Tivo can't Skype.

(4)  I miss feeling relevant.  My Facebook status updates have gravely suffered because I am without my daily infusion of popular culture, and my rare telephone calls with people back home lack that heartwarming "Did you see this week's episode?" bond.  I can offer no opinions as to which Bachelorette is the most desperate, or which Idol should be disqualified based on his or her salacious resume, or who is, in fact, the biggest loser.  Sure, I follow politics and global news, but I don't have a clue as to what is actually happening in the world. 

So Television, Tivo, please don't forget about me.  Please stay in touch.  And believe that I am trying, trying SO hard, to find a way to make this work.  I am researching satellite options, knowing that with satellite comes a magical little invention called Showbox, Tivo's dramatically less sophisticated knockoff cousin.  Yes, long distance relationships can be hard, but we are not like other couples.  We have history.  A long history that dates back to the New Zoo Revue, which as a child I used to watch alone with you before the sun and my parents rose.  We lived through many, many years of Little House on the Prairie together; and 90210, Felicity, and My So-Called Life taught me everything I needed to know about being a teenager.  As an adult, I knelt at the altar of Sex and the City, and I will be forever changed as a result of letting Carrie and Aidan and Big into my heart.  So please, don't turn your back on me.  I need you.  

And I hope that, in some little Nielsen way, you need me, too.  (sob, sniff)

On to Some Lighter Fare!

Hi there.  It has been brought to my attention that that last post re: Israel was a little depressing (sorry for panicking anyone, we TRULY are fine here!!), so I have decided to move on to some lighter fare.  Like psychoanalyzing my children based on their reactions to their Hannukah gifts!  (See, I used the word.  I'm not scared.  That was a bit.  For entertainment.  So stop worrying about us.  Please!)

Ok.  So two mornings ago, I presented the girls with matching pink Barbie remote control cars.  (I realize that the car in the photo says "Emily" on the front, and I don't know what to tell you because the picture on the box was clearly Barbie.  My best guess is that she, too, goes by a Middle East alias.)  I chose the same item for Sushi and Screamer because, with very limited exception, having two daughters so close in age means near-inevitable war if one is ever in possession of a pink- or purple-colored object and the other is not.  This does not mean that every single Hanukkah gift is delivered in duplicate, but it helps if presents are always equal in desirability if not in kind.

Anyway, I picked up these cars because they struck me as a relatively foolproof means of keeping the kids out of my hair for at least a few minutes; Sushi and Screamer are now old enough to play with each other for small periods of time (until, predictably, someone bursts into tears over a minor violation of play etiquette).  I didn't pay much attention to the quality (what nice Newish girl could pass up a bargain?) and I certainly didn't pay any attention to their respective operating frequencies (obvious hint: this will be an important detail later!).  I was just happy to cross off another To Do item on my long list of 16 required presents (that's 8 presents apiece for the 2 older girls; Baby does not have standing to expect Hanukkah presents until she is old enough to complain about not getting any).

At first, the cars were a big hit: Sushi stuck her tongue out as the wrapping paper was coming off (she expresses enthusiasm not unlike a puppy), and Screamer made her phony dropped-jaw astonished face, which I appreciate because even if it's exaggerated it makes me feel good about my gift selection.

And then the trouble began.  No sooner were the batteries installed than we realized a tragic flaw in the vehicular duo: both cars were operating on the same frequency, even though the remotes' frequencies were distinct.  This meant that Sushi's remote controlled both cars, while the other remote was powerless over anything other than Screamer's increasing confusion as she flicked the switches back and forth to no avail.  Now Daddy privately assured me that Screamer was none the wiser, and that she was excited just seeing her car when it was zooming around (at Sushi's whim)... but I just kept picturing her puzzled little face as she stood in the corner, focusing so intently on moving those controls, while her car sat motionless at her feet.  Damn that convenience store that once again left me high and dry! WHO is rifling through the children's toy section and removing tricycle parts and mixing up cars with their remote controls??  Is there now any doubt that that establishment is unknowingly harboring some wayward employee who truly dislikes children???  At that moment, I silently promised Screamer that her awesome powers would soon be restored.

This morning my day of atonement arrived: after we lit the Hanukkah candles, I sat the girls down in front of their wrapped boxes and explained that these gifts were what we grownups call a "do over."  (Never mind the compelling argument that the new cars should not have counted against the 8-present total; I have to keep reminding myself that these kids have no idea of whether we are on the 3rd night of Hanukkah or the 87th.)  I said that the Barbie (Emily) cars were no good, that they didn't work right, and that Daddy and I wanted them to have even better cars!  The wrapping paper flew off and I braced myself for the squeals of glee.  After all, these new cars were bigger! brighter! and designed so that in the aftermath of a crash in to the wall, they would bust apart only to reconfigure themselves moments later!  how cool!

But, as you might have guessed, the glee never came.

Instead, Sushi crumpled into herself and whimpered, "These are boy toys."

My heart broke.

No, Sushi, these are not "boy" toys!  They are better toys!  Stronger toys!  Faster toys!  More sophisticated machines for you, the more sophisticated driver!

She wasn't listening.  Her head was swirling in a daydream of pink and purple.  I could not get through to her.  My heart broke some more.

Instantly, I folded, desperate to salvage the moment. "That's okay!  If you don't like this car, you can trade it in for something else!"  (This tactic, which I have used in the past, gives Daddy a nervous tic: "We are not Toys 'R' Us!")  And so Daddy put his foot down, announcing that there would be no trading in, this was today's present, just look at how excited Screamer is, maybe you will feel better about it later, let's get dressed and go to Starbucks (the cure-all for adults if not children).

I whisked Sushi aside for some guerilla psychological counseling, calling upon every Women's Studies class I had ever taken for my ammunition.  There are no such things as "boy" toys and "girl" toys, I explained, there are just "toys."  Think of that tool kit you so enjoy-- some might call that a "boy" toy, but you love it.  (A warning bell rang in my head: with this new information, she'll probably never play with the tool kit again.)  You should never judge anything before you try it, after all, sometimes the "boy" toys and sports and activities are way better than the "girl" counterparts.  I want you to experience everything in life!  Seize the day!  Gender equality!  Girl Power!  Spice Girls!  Madonna!  Hillary Clinton!  (ok, ok, I stopped myself before we got to Hillary, but I reserve the right to give the girls a primer in Hillary's historic accomplishments another day.)

She was unmoved.  "Mommy, girl toys are pink.  Boy toys are for fighting and I don't like boy toys."  

I was defeated, a present-picking failure.  I had 8 obligations to my kids and I had been unable to meet my measly 8 duties.  I promised to revisit the gift trade idea with mean old Daddy.  

Thankfully, though, a parental showdown was not necessary in the end.  A stroke of inspiration produced the hard-earned compromise depicted above: a "boy" toy with "girl" decoration.  And Sushi loves it.  Surely the manufacturers of the "Invinzer: Crash Zones" truck (what does Invinzer mean, anyway?  I'll have to ask a boy) did not have a ballerina hood ornament in mind when they tricked their toy vehicles out with "monster rubber tires" and a capacity for 250 MPH "scale speed," but in my world, the monster truck industry has never looked better... or prettier.

Gaza Airstrikes

Well, if you woke up this morning and thought of us when you read today's unsettling headlines about Israel's deadly attacks on Gaza, then I thank you for your concern.  Of course we are fine, but I'd be lying if I said that it didn't put a whole new spin on reading about the violent Middle East while *living* in the violent Middle East.

The irony, for us, about this unexpected and escalated wave of Israeli-Palestinian aggression is that it falls squarely in the middle of our own personal struggle with being Newish in the United Arab Emirates during the Festival of Tights.  Just last night over dinner, we had a lively debate over the pros and cons of officially "coming out" to our (Christian, Filipino) housemaid and, more critically, our (Muslim, Pakistani) driver.  Daddy prefers not to make any formal statement, erring on the side of "don't ask, don't tell" (his preliminary research into Dubai suggested to him that many Muslims who are anti-Israel would be quick to conflate "Jewish" with "Israeli," and they would not afford any distinction to an American New who might not necessarily agree with all of Israel's foreign policies).  I, on the other hand, bristle at the thought of in any way having to hide in my *own* home (it's what we tactlessly call "Anne Frank-ing it"); and I would rather make a full disclosure to Zia now than after we become his official state sponsor, which will likely happen next week when Daddy finally gets his visa.  PopPop's take is that he is proud of his Newishness and doesn't care who knows about it... though when Zia surprised him by walking in on Christmas to find the Festival of Tights candles burning and asked PopPop of the (let's call it) zenorah, "What's that?", PopPop simply replied, "We just lit the candles" (notice the vague omission!), to which Zia said, "Oh. Well, Merry Christmas."  (I sympathized; for as often as I had sworn that I was going to raise the issue with Zia and just get it over with, somehow I always just ended up talking to him about the weather.  "Never expected it to be this chilly in Dubai!")

Wanna know something else really crummy?  A few days after we arrived here, and I saw how Western everything seemed and how international the people are and how friendly the atmosphere is, I decided that there wasn't really anything scary about being Newish here, much to my relief.  And then, a few days ago, my visiting friend (we'll call him Seacrest) told me about the following passages from the 2007 edition of the popular travel guide, "Time Out Dubai":

"PROHIBITIONS.  ... Israeli nationals are not allowed into the United Arab Emirates; however, following a recent change in policy, other nationalities can now enter the UAE with an Israeli stamp in their passport."

"RELIGION. ... Islam is the official religion on the UAE.  Around 16 per cent of the local population is Shi'a Muslim and the remainder Sunni Muslims.  Dubai is the most multicultural and therefore the most tolerant of the emirates and other religions (except Judaism) are respected, but it is still a Muslim state."

When Seacrest told me about that last parenthetical, I refused to believe it until I saw it with my own eyes.  How could this be written?  And could it possibly be true?  Suddenly, all of my initial trepidation came rushing back.  What would it mean for us, in terms of actual consequences, if the state-sanctioned position of this country is that News are officially not welcome here?  Isn't that the implication to be drawn from the assertion that Nudaism is not "respected"?  Or could I make any legitimate case that perhaps Dubai is evolving so rapidly that a publication from 2007 is, here on the eve of 2009, already out of date?

Last night, I tried to articulate my fears.  Was I concerned that, should our Newishness go public, someone would spray paint our house?  Ridicule my children?  Slash our tires?  Did I worry that kids would not want to play with Sushi and Screamer at school?  That Raquel would worry for her safety and quit?  Or--and this is my big one-- that Zia would tell some nefarious Muslim acquaintances of his who would then perpetrate some violent act against us??  

No, no, no-- I had to stop myself.  There was my vivid imagination running away again.  If violent acts were being committed against Americans in Dubai-- Newish or otherwise-- it would certainly have been picked up by the U.S. media by now.  Certainly.  Furthermore, Zia has lived with us for over a month and been nothing but kind to us: he carries my children to the car, and gives them hugs when they fall, and has never indicated that he has any intention other than being the best at his job and keeping a watchful, helpful, guiding eye over this family as we learn the ropes of the UAE.  Any presumption that our relationship would instantly deteriorate upon The Disclosure would be an unfounded, unfair offense against him.  Just because he is Muslim does not change the fact that he has, unquestionably, been our friend.

But then I woke up this morning.  And despite attempting to avert my glance, I caught a glimpse of the bloody photograph on the front page of the paper.  And I saw the headline that this was the deadliest attack in years, and that there's no end in sight, and that, according to one reporter, the "Muslim world" is outraged.

And I felt my heart pound a little bit.

Again, I had to talk myself down.  Hey listen, Mommy, there are random acts of violence everywhere.  We could move back to the States and find ourselves in the middle of a bank robbery.  And there are no guarantees in life at all: we could be hit by a bus anywhere. Besides, Gaza is 1300 miles away.  It's not like we're going to be hit by shrapnel-- I mean, it wouldn't even occur to me to worry about flurries in Miami, Florida, if I heard that Bangor, Maine was being hit by a snowstorm.  No, I look out my window and the sun is shining and the kids want to go to the park and the baby needs a nap and, aside from the horrific images and headlines jumping out of the newspapers, for the most part it's just another day.

Another Festival of Tights day, no less!

And so, like the proud and scrappy little News we are, we set up the zenorah (amidst increasingly noisy pleas from the children, who have come to expect candle-lighting in the mornings so that new presents do not interfere with bedtime) and we soldiered on.  We lit those candles just as we had the day before there in the kitchen, in plain view, and we said those prayers out loud, not even visibly flinching when Raquel passed right through the kitchen, mop in hand, just as we were hitting the high notes.  Overall I would give the adults' performance a solid B+/A- this morning; even though Gaza was on all of our minds, we rushed through the prayers only a teeny bit, and our volume was decreased only ever so slightly.  So what if our thoughts were elsewhere and we lacked some of our usual gusto-- what's important is that we got the job done, and that the wide-eyed, precious, so-excited-to-be-Newish children never suspected a thing.  After all, we're just the latest additions to a time-honored tradition of being doggedly Newish in less-than-ideal circumstances... there's nothing "New" about that!

I did, however, take particular note as we recited the last prayer, the Shehecheyanu, which is only required on the first night but which I insist we do on each of the nights.  It says: "Blessed are you, our God, creator of time and space, who has supported us, protected us, and brought us to this moment." 

I'm not a big believer in God, but I am a big believer in carpe diem.  And so, standing in my pajamas in the kitchen of a rented house in a foreign land where maybe, just maybe, I don't belong, I looked at my three children and my husband and my dad and the lit candles of that danged zenorah-- wait, menorah-- and I smiled.

Just Another Day at the Beach in Dubai

(click the triangle to play video)

Dinner at Bab Al Shams

From the frostbite of the ski slopes to the serenity of the desert plains, all in one day.  Tonight we enjoyed a traditional Arabic dinner at the Bab Al Shams resort, about an hour drive from our house.  There was a vast buffet, as well as belly dancers, camel rides, henna tattoos, musicians, falcons, etc., etc., etc.!  Screamer readily joined Daddy and me on a camel ride, while Sushi, after heavy persuasion and the threat of no ice cream, agreed to stand *next* to a donkey.  It was a truly fantastic evening.

Ski Dubai

We hit the indoor ski slope today at the Mall of the Emirates.  And while we didn't actually strap on the ol' skis, we did don rented outfits and hang out with a giant dragon ice sculpture, throw snow balls, take long rides up and down the lift, and go on a million slides down the hill on an inner tube.  The kids had a blast and, to be honest, so did the adults!  Definitely worth the price of admission.